


Impermissible

by bloodred_ander



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Falling In Love, M/M, Murder, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7539520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodred_ander/pseuds/bloodred_ander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A spy and an assassin who find love where they shouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _His wings are gray and trailing,_   
>  _Azrael, Angel of Death,_   
>  _And yet the souls that Azrael brings_   
>  _Across the dark and cold,_   
>  _Look up beneath those folded wings,_   
>  _And find them lined with gold._
> 
>  
> 
>   _—ROBERT GILBERT WELSH, “AZRAEL”_

"NO!" Mats' yell comes from somewhere down the left wing of the warehouse followed a second later by the sound of a gun being fired. Marco takes off in that direction; feet pounding against the grimy floor. His heart feels like it's going to burst out of his chest, his mind only occupied with one thought: _please let them be okay._

  
"Mats?!" Marco calls out, his tone laced with concern. He dodges fallen crates and rushes randomly through aisles surrounded by huge storage containers until finally, through sheer luck, he finds them.

He stops abruptly, breathing heavily as he takes in the scene in front of him. His heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach.

"Ben...." he whispers sadly, looking at the older agent sprawled across the floor, laying in a pool of his own blood. Mats kneels beside him, cradling his head in his lap as he sobs.

Marco lowers his gun as he slowly makes his way over to them. He kneels on the other side of Benedikt, ignoring the warm blood that soaks through his jeans. He looks at Mats; his heart filling with pity at how broken he looks kneeling beside the body of his dying lover. At that moment, for the sake of his best friend, Marco wishes that he was the one slowly dying here and not Ben.

"I-I'm...s-" Ben tries to speak, reluctantly drawing Marco's attention to him. He splutters, coughing up blood that stains his lips red and trickles down the side of his mouth.

"Shhh," Mats tries to keep him from talking. His hand is pressed over the gunshot wound on Ben's chest, trying his best to stop the bleeding. Somewhere in the back of his mind Marco realizes that Mats' effort is useless but he doesn't have the heart to say that out loud. Not when Ben has a gentle hand placed over Mats'.

"It's okay, Benni," Mats whispers gently, his voice trembling. "You're going to be okay. Backup's gonna be here any minute now. You'll be okay."

Marco feels his heart clench at that.

He _is_ their backup. And he knows that Ben's already too far gone, that nothing can save him but he still feels guilt flood through him because he was sent to help them. He was sent to make sure they made it back from this mission. But he arrived a few seconds too late.

Ben looks Marco in the eyes and his gaze is surprisingly steady.

"I'm s-sorry," he gasps out. Marco feels his eyes sting because he's supposed to say that; he's supposed to be apologizing to Ben and it shouldn't be the other way around.

"Ben...." Marco tries to say something but Ben shakes his head slightly. He opens his mouth and wheezes out another apology.

"I'm sorry....sor-ry.."

Marco feels a tear slide down his cheek but he doesn't reply..... _he can't reply_. What is he supposed to say?

Ben looks up at Mats then, his eyes going soft and glassy. He gives him a small smile and Marco feels like he's intruding but he can't bring himself to look away.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. Mats shakes his head violently, his sobs ringing out in the otherwise deathly silence of the warehouse.

"No," he chokes out, gripping onto Ben's shirt. "No....."

"I'm...... So-- sorry," Ben all but whispers. His hand that had been placed over Mats' slips and falls to the floor and his head lolls to one side.

Then with a final shuddering breath, Benedikt's body goes limp.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Marco sits silently in Michael Ballack's office as said man stares at him from across the fancy, polished oak table. Ballack's dressed completely in black, just like he is but he definitely looks better than Marco.

Marco supposes that's because he didn't have to stay awake for two continuous nights; trying to keep his best friend calm after he woke up screaming because of nightmares. Nightmares that had most probably been about Benedikt dying in his arms.

"That's all that happened?" Ballack asks after a few seconds of heavy silence, referring to the brief that Marco had given him about his mission three days ago. Marco resists the urge to scowl.

"Yes, Sir," he answers. Ballack regards him for a moment before he sighs and leans back in his big, black leather chair. His gaze is as cold and unnerving as it always is and it makes Marco anxious.

"The Angels of Death," Ballack says while adjusting the cuffs of his very expensive looking suit. Marco looks at him blankly, wondering what the hell he's talking about.

"You haven't heard of them," Ballack points out after a solid minute of silence. His tone is condescending and Marco clenches his fists in annoyance. He doesn't bother replying this time.

"Assassins," Ballack tells him as if that's the most obvious thing in the world. "Guns for hire."

"And?" Marco prompts after waiting for Ballack to elaborate - he's getting tired of Ballack's nonchalance - because he knows there's more that he has to say.

"There's one that's been causing us a little too much trouble lately," Ballack says casually, like he's talking about the weather. "They call him Azrael. Showed up on our radar approximately two years ago. Since then, he's been credited with over a dozen assassinations...." here he pauses and studies Marco's face before carefully adding, "Including Benedikt's."

Marco goes rigid in his seat, his heart clenching with guilt and sorrow at the mention of Ben. He looks down at his hands, gritting his teeth together as he takes slow calming breaths. Marco thinks of his best friend, Mats; about how miserable he looked at Ben's funeral only a few hours ago and the way he sobbed into Marco's shoulders after.

He swallows thickly and looks up again. He knows where this is going and he's ready. He's ready to take revenge on behalf of his best friend.

"We need him taken down," Ballack says stiffly. His eyes cloud over with something akin to sadness for a second before it floods with anger.

"You're sending me after him," it's not a question. Marco already knows what his next mission's going to be and he's ready for it.

Ballack slides a file across the table towards him.

"You are our best agent," he shrugs. "Everything you need to know is in there," he gestures towards the file still sitting in between them.

"Good luck."

Marco takes his cue and stands. He takes the sleek black file with him, nodding once at Ballack.

"Sir," he says respectfully before he turns and walks towards the door. Just as he reaches for the doorknob, Ballack speaks up, making him pause mid step.

"You will leave tonight," Ballack orders him. "And you will leave alone. This mission is classified."

Marco nods in understanding, turning the handle and pushing open the door.

"And Marco?"

Marco turns the slightest bit, just so he can look at Ballack out of the corner of his eyes.

"Please," he says softly, gently. Something that is so unlike him. "Leave Mats out of this." Marco takes a deep breath, nods and walks out of the office.

  
And all throughout his drive back home, he tries to ignore the voice at the back of his mind that tells him something is seriously wrong.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Marco sighs and takes a long drag from his cigarette, letting the toxic substance flood his lungs. The burn is somewhat lesser now after smoking almost three packets. He looks down at the pictures on the table in front of him; his eyes focusing on the one that's got him smoking like he has a death wish.

It's a picture of three people; three men. The quality isn't very good; the photo was probably taken from quite a distance, but it's enough.

The one on the left has his back facing the camera; a six foot tall male dressed in sneakers, jeans and a grey jumper, his soft brown hair the only feature that's really visible. This, according to the reports, is _Azrael_. And this photograph, this lame shot, is the only one they have of him.

Marco moves his eyes over to the figure in the middle. A tall blond male with a slender figure, wearing a white t-shirt, jeans and flip-flops. He looks harmless enough, even though he stands a good few inches taller than the other two. This one is officially known as _Samael_. More commonly, he's known as the "Baby-faced Assassin". He is - as hard as it is to believe - the founder and leader of _The Angels of Death_.

Finally, Marco's eyes rest on the third person in the picture.

He slowly blows out the smoke he'd been holding in, allowing it to surround him, cling to his clothes and skin. His eyes are swollen and bloodshot, his hair is a mess because of how he continuously runs his fingers through it. The hotel room he's staying in is trashed; a chair lies broken in the corner where he hurled it against the wall. His bed is stripped of all its fancy sheets and covers and more than a few vases and decorations lie in pieces on the expensive carpeted floor.

Ballack's warning rings clearly in his head _leave Mats out of this_. Now Marco knows why he said that.

The thrid person in the picture - despite the bad quality - is someone Marco can easily recognise after spending almost two years with him. His scanty hair, his tall build, even his blurry smile as he leans into Samael; it's all too achingly familiar.

The thrid person in the picture, the third member of this group of assassins - is Benedikt.

Marco can still feel the anger coursing through his veins, the feeling of betrayal sitting heavy in his stomach. He feels so lost. He doesn't know who to be mad at anymore. He wants to be mad at Benedikt for lying - he even is, to some extent. Ben had lied to him and everyone else sure, but more importantly, he'd lied to Mats. Someone who loved and trusted him. Who still did. He wants to hate him for that, but he finds himself unable to once he thinks back to how Ben had died in Mats' arms; apologizing to both of them. He wants to hate Benedikt - _Yama_ , the reports call him - for being a double agent, for tricking them, for deceiving them, but he can't.

He's definitely mad at Azrael; for murdering his friend because that's what Ben was and still is - despite everything, despite the truth - and Marco has a bullet in his gun with Azrael's name written on it.

But more than anyone else, Marco feels angry at himself. He can't explain why, but he blames himself for all this. And he knows, for the sake of Mats - _and for Ben_ , he thinks reluctantly - that he has to hunt down this bastard and kill him.

He puts out his cigarette against the smooth wood of the table, maring its surface with a small circular burn. Marco puts away the pictures; _that_ one going first. Then the ones of the bullets Azrael uses; untraceable, custom made bullets that have tiny golden-black wings etched on each side. The same type of bullet that Ben was shot with.

Next, Marco puts away all the countless sheets of paper containing information about his target and the fraternity he's a part of. Information that Marco's already memorised. He clears the table, ignoring the mess his hotel room is in; broken furniture and cigarette butts scattered all over. Housekeeping can deal with that.

He walks over to the big glass window and peers out of it at the dull grey skyline of London. Marco had always wanted to visit London, maybe spend a month or two on vacation here. It's a shame he's visiting under the circumstances he's in.

Sighing, he walks away from the window, checking his watch. He needs to be at the gathering at 7:00 pm. He needs to be there because that's where Azrael is going to be, preparing for his next kill. And that's where Marco's going to nab him, make him pay for killing Ben.

Marco's orders are simple - find Azrael, kill him and fly back home - but Marco isn't. He has a plan of his own.  
 

He lets a sadistic smile stretch his lips as he thinks of the many ways in which he can make Azrael's death as slow and painful as he possibly can.


	4. Chapter 4

One very, very important fact that Marco forgot about was that he didn’t know what Azrael looked like. Sure he knew that the guy had brown hair and was six feet tall, but then again that description fit at least half of the men in the room. _So much for having a lead_ he thinks.

Marco takes a sip from the glass in his hand as he subtly scans the crowded room for the umpteenth time. Every single person here is dressed to the nines - the women in their stunning, figure hugging gowns and the men in their sharply tailored suits.

Somewhere to the right - just a few feet away from Marco - is Jürgen Klopp. He's the host of this event, but more importantly, he's Azrael's next target. Marco knows that Azrael is no fool. He knows that Azrael isn't just going to shoot Klopp in plain sight of everyone. Azrael is all clever tactics and complex plans, but Marco's no slacker either. He's got eyes and ears everywhere; trained agents keeping an eye on every single thing and every single person. Azrael would most probably shoot from a distance, but Marco can't see how he can possibly manage that when there are no vantage points. Still he doesn't let his guard down for even a second.

"Hey."

Marco blinks, the only indication that he's surprised. He turns in a slow circle, not really in the mood to socialise, and smiles politely at the man standing in front of him, looking as disinterested as he possibly can. As he takes in the stranger before him, his mind slips into its analytical state; soft, brown hair, green eyes that twinkle mischievously and a dimpled smile that - despite his slightly crooked teeth - makes Marco's own lips twitch upwards just that slightest bit. He runs his eyes over the guys slender figure and tightens his grip on the glass in his hand as he thinks _what if_ \- with his brown hair and six feet tall stature - _this guy is Azrael?_

But that train of thought is quickly dashed when the guy raises his eyebrows, obviously wondering why Marco's staring at him weirdly instead of responding to his greeting like a normal person would.

Marco shakes the doubt out of his mind with some difficulty. While he may not feel guilty about judging, _scrutinising_ , someone - it is his job after all - he does manage to feel a little stupid under the guy's stare.

"Hey," Marco says smoothly. He gives the stranger a small smile and watches as the guys lips stretch even wider.

"I'm Erik," he introduces himself, extending a hand for Marco to shake.

"Marco," he says curtly, gripping Erik's hand in a firm handshake. He can't help looking over Erik again, his mind picking out the tiniest of details. Firm handshake. Slightly calloused fingers. Expensive suit. Confident without being overly so. Well groomed. Perfect posture. Definitely someone of consequence then...

Marco does notice a few odd details however. If Erik really is someone rich, someone who dresses up all the time and attends fancy events, it's definitely peculiar that he'd be missing something as basic as cufflinks or a tie pin. Another peculiar thing is the watch Erik's wearing; it's a black leather watch with a black face and a gold dial. It looks well worn and extremely cheap for someone who carries himself with an attitude like Erik. Perhaps it could be something that belonged to Erik's father or some other relative who meant a lot to him, but Marco doubts it because while the watch may look like it's seen better days it definitely doesn't look to be very old. It sure holds high sentimental value though, if Erik's brave enough to wear it to such occasions.

Marco finally lets go of Erik's hand and looks into his eyes. Marco wonders why Erik came over to talk to him, but he doesn't ask that question out loud.

"So, Marco," Erik takes a sip of his drink before continuing. "Who are you with?"

Marco furrows his brows, slightly thrown by Erik's question. "What do you mean?"

"It's a plus one event," Erik clarifies, his smile turning into a smirk that seems a little too deprecating to Marco.

"Ah, yes," Marco manages an easy smile, internally cursing himself for forgetting that little fact. "My girlfriend. She's over there."

Marco points to a beautiful blonde woman standing across the room talking to a group of women. She's a fellow agent of course, who agreed to be his date - and an extra pair of eyes and ears - for the evening.

"I can see why you're standing here brooding all by yourself," Erik jokes. "I know I'd feel incredibly out of my depth if I were a part of that conversation."

"I am not brooding," Marco feels the need to point out. "It's just that these sort of gatherings are...."

"Not your thing?" Erik finishes for him. "I know what you mean. It definitely takes some getting used to."

Marco frowns as he looks at Erik, the statement kind of not sitting right in his stomach. He's about to ask Erik what exactly he means by that when a shrill cry cuts through the otherwise tranquil atmosphere. He whips his head around immediately, his eyes searching for Jürgen Klopp. He can't see him but there's a small group forming around where Jürgen was previously standing.

Marco throws his drink to the floor as he pushes through the crowd of people, his mind working on overdrive. _How could he be so careless?_

Marco bursts through the crowd and it takes him a while to register what's happening; kneeling on the floor, looking worried as he calls for an ambulance on his phone, is Jürgen Klopp. There's someone else - someone Marco doesn't know - writhing on the floor and frothing at the mouth, a clear indication of poisoning.

Marco knows he won't last long.

He's also sure that the drink which the man had was originally meant for Jürgen. Definitely Azrael's attempt at Jürgen's life. What he doesn't know is how the hell the drinks got mixed up because as far as he knows - thanks to the reports - Azrael has a perfect record.

So for that very reason, Marco can't help but wonder what went wrong this time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read with caution!

He kneels panting in the middle of the room, his hands handcuffed to chains that are attached to the walls. His wrists are raw and bleeding because of the way the metal cuffs had bit into his skin as he struggled. His hair is matted to his head with sweat and his throat feels dry and sore because of all the screaming he had done.

Sitting on a chair opposite him - cigarette in one hand and that god forsaken leather whip in the other - is Samael. He looks at him casually as he blows out cigarette smoke, his blue eyes cold and calculating. _Menacing_.

"I don't think you've learned your lesson," Samael says as he flicks his cigarette at him. He stands slowly, tilting his head to get a better look at the boy before him. "Have you?"

Azrael looks up at him with tears rolling down his cheeks. Samael looks so.... _human,_ with his bow shaped lips and soft round cheeks and delicate, delicate features. Azrael knows though, that he's anything but. His eyes convey that very clearly. So does the whip gripped tight in his right hand.

Samael smiles and hunches down until he's eye level with him. He wipes a tear away with his thumb and to his credit, Azrael doesn't flinch away from his touch. Instead he holds eye contact, his green eyes meeting with Samael's blue ones, and doesn't dare answer the question his leader asked him earlier. He learnt the hard way that any question Samael asked while he was _cleansing_  was one that did not require an answer.

Samael considers him for a moment, his eyes scanning over his face and then dropping lower, gaze lingering on the welts that mar his pale skin. Samael sighs and steps away, looking unsatisfied. "I didn't draw enough blood," he whispers to himself.

Azrael barely has enough time to register his words before Samael raises his right hand high above his head, pulling back and then swinging the whip forward with a forceful snap of his wrist. The whip lands on the already sensitised skin of his left upper torso, curling around his chest and snapping at his already lacerated back. It bites into his flesh, tearing his skin open, running over his wounds inflected only moments ago, leaving a trail of fire and stinging agony in its wake.

Azrael didn't think he could scream anymore. He was wrong.

Samael ignores his cry of pain, looking curiously at the fresh wound on his body with a tilt of his head. Seemingly satisfied with seeing blood flowing down his new wound, Samael nods minutely and swings again. And again. And again. And again.

Azrael screams louder each time the whip makes contact with his body. He swears he can hear as much as feel his skin splitting open, the whip cutting deeper and _deeper_ each time. He bows his head and struggles against his bonds, body jerking helplessly as Samael relentlessly continues his _cleansing._

After a long, _long_ , time Samael finally stops.

Azrael had fallen silent long ago, his screams turning into sobs as the pain became too much to bear, too much for him to stay conscious. He didn't pass out, no - that would be too much to hope for - but his body had been pushed well past its breaking point. He had just given up at some point and let his head drop down, body sagging forward tiredly, almost hitting the floor but being held up by his restraints, arms pulled back at an awkward angle.

"I think," Samael says, panting, "that somehow this is not enough for you."

Azrael just chokes out a sob. He can't take anymore. No more. But he's also helpless because he doesn't hold the power here. So if Samael decided he wasn't done, then he wasn't and Azrael could do nothing about it.

"This isn't going to stop you from stepping out of line again," Samael says matter-of-fact, voice still breathy. "But I know what will. I know how to make you comply, Azrael."

Azrael doesn't really hear anything Samael says after that, can't bring himself to concentrate on anything apart from the intense agony that's swimming through his system. Samael's voice sounds disjointed, floating around his skull in a jumbled mix of words. He's loud, too loud. And then suddenly he... isn't.

Azrael opens his eyes slowly, not sure when he even closed them, and lifts his head a little, just enough so he can see Samael's feet. It's at this moment that the door slams open and two people walk in, their footsteps making his head pound. He closes his eyes again. Azrael's too out of it to react to anything, to register anything and he doesn't really know how much time passes before he hears Samael speak again

"Hold his head up, I want him to watch."

A set of feet move towards him and then suddenly there are fingers in his hair, yanking his head up forcefully. Azrael winces, blinking a few times to clear his blurry vision, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. Once his vision starts to clear however, he immediately feels his body grow numb with  fear. His senses slowly, soberingly, come back to him as he sees exactly what Samael wants him to. Or rather _who_.

"Please," he whispers, sounding broken and terrified, "please, don't."

Samael just smirks at him from where he's standing, tying Kevin's hands to the post in front of him. Kevin is completely naked, his clothing lying at his feet and a gag around his mouth. He has his back facing him, but Azrael can tell he's crying by the way his shoulders are shaking. He feels sick, guilt and dread sitting heavy in his stomach. It's his fault Kevin is here.

"Please," he begs again, desperately trying to get Kevin out of this situation. "Let him go. It was me who disobeyed you. I failed as an _Angel of Death_ , so please. He was just helping me, _please_..."

"Then let him help you again, Azrael," Samael says coldly, stepping back and raising his hand, whip at the ready. "Let him bear your punishment, your pain."

Azrael screams louder than he has when the whip makes contact with skin. And even though this time it's not his own, somehow it hurts more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Samael is actually another sportsman from a different fandom. Can anyone guess who he is?
> 
> Hint: "The baby faced assassin" ;)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm making it a point to complete this fic by the end of this month. I've neglected it for far too long lol...


End file.
